


Icarus

by voksen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Crack Pairing, Gay Bar, M/M, Plot What Plot, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the names match, there must be slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).



Henriksen knows the Winchesters are long gone the second he sees the SWAT guys tied up and stripped; clean away just like - too much like - Hannibal Lecter. The old thing about sticking near the scene of the crime doesn't really apply to people like Dean Winchester: he's too canny to hang around, especially now that he knows he's been made. The whole country's his oyster.

He sends Reidy home after a few days, when it's become obvious that they hadn't left a trail to follow... not that he'd thought they would. But he's not quite ready to go back to the Bureau yet himself; instead, he rents a room in a local long-stay and huddles down with his laptop, his case files, and a stack of pizza boxes. Here, in the last place he knows for sure the Winchesters have been, he goes over the facts again and again, trying to fit together what he knows with what he's seen. It's a complicated algebra of profiling; it's a hunt for the answer to one question. 

He wants to find the brothers _before_ he gets the call that they've surfaced again, before they add more bodies to their count. At the end of the week, though, he has to admit: he's gotten nowhere. The files are thicker - mostly details on the bank victims, none of whom really had anything in common with Dean's previous targets - and that's about it. He has no more idea where they'll show up next than he did when he started, not even a guess better than throwing a dart at the map tacked to his wall.

When he's about ready to rip the damn papers apart rather than read them one more time, he gives in and admits it: the way he's going, he's going to miss something obvious. He needs a break, something to get his mind off murder and graverobbing and the monsters that hide inside freckle-faced all-American boys.

So that's how he ends up here, at a bar in downtown Milwaukee, two shots down and another in front of him. Truth is, though, he's not here to get drunk - drunk enough to forget what he needs to forget would leave him useless with a hangover from hell tomorrow. No; a little to take the edge off, then he'll get to picking someone up. Someone who doesn't know anything about any of this.

And what do you know, some things do go his way: _someone_ jostles into him just as he thinks he's about ready to start looking, with a gruff, heavily-accented "Sorry."

Henriksen takes a look: he's maybe mid-20s, tall, slightly awkward-looking, with a big hooked nose that dominates his face despite the thick eyebrows, short dark hair and a bit of stubble. His button-down is a size or two too big for him, sagging over his slouched shoulders and down the arms, and his pants are baggy in a decidedly unfashionable way. Not his usual type at all, but about as far away as it's possible to get from his own FBI-issue suits... or the tight, neat T-shirts and survivalist army jackets in all the photos in the file he's not thinking about.

Just what he needs tonight.

So he waits as Mr. Tall, Dark, and Grungy fails to get the attention of the bartender (down at the other end of the bar, flirting with a twink) and eventually just sets his empty glass down on the bar and glances over at him instead, catching his eye.

Henriksen sees the flash of appraisal, returns it more openly. "Victor," he says with a nod, offering his hand, and - the other man's expression slides from guarded interest to that wary, half-guilty _caught_ look that every lawman knows. Aw hell, he thinks, but no, he doesn't recognize him, not from the known associates in his open files or any other wanted lists he remembers. Fuck it. "My name," he says. "Henriksen. Victor Henriksen." As though he were Bond or something, Christ.

"Oh," says the other, but there's layers of relief behind it as he eases out of that sulky, pinched frown; it makes Henriksen more curious than he needs to be about a one night stand. But then he's reaching out, clasping Henriksen's hand - firmly, calluses on the palm as well as the strong fingers. "I did not mean to be rude. My name is also Viktor. Krum."

"New in town?" Henriksen asks, as if _he's_ not.

Krum glances down the bar again, visibly gives up on the chance of getting another drink, and gives a rolling sort of shrug. "I am here for the game," he says.

The things Henriksen has in mind for tonight don't involve big foam cheese hats or stadium-issue nachos, not unless you're a hell of a lot kinkier than he is. "You got time for anything else?"

Krum half-smiles.

 

They end up back in Henriksen's motel room. By the time Henriksen has gotten all the files shoved into drawers, Krum's got his button-down off, dropped on the floor carelessly, and is peeling off his undershirt.

Henriksen says " _Damn,_ " under his breath without meaning to, because instead of the skinny Nirvana-wannabe he thought he was bringing home, underneath that badly-fitting clothing the man's all muscle. Long, perfect lines, hard planes fading into ripped abs like some kind of Greek statue. Like an athlete. 

Suddenly _I'm here for the game_ \- whatever kind of game it was, he never had asked - matches up in his mind with this body and that hunted look from earlier, clicking together into a complete puzzle, and Henriksen nearly bites his tongue. For his nice, uncomplicated, stress-relieving hookup, he's managed to pick up some kind of sports celebrity on the down-low. Does this sort of thing even _happen_ to anyone else?

And then Krum is topless, his hands going to his belt and zipper. and he looks at Henriksen standing there watching him, tilts his head slightly, inquiringly. There's an almost uncertain look to him now that doesn't fit on a body like that, and Henriksen thinks _fuck it, why not_ and starts stripping out of his suit.

He's just out of his jacket and tie when Krum finally gets his buckle undone, and from there the too-loose pants practically fall off his slim, narrow hips, and Henriksen's breath catches. Krum's not wearing underwear; he steps out of the pants, stands there in front of Henriksen naked, hard.

It should be awkward, but instead, somehow, it's hot as fuck. Henriksen leaves his shirt on, unzips his pants instead, palms his cock through his briefs. "Come here," he says, and Krum does, dropping down to his knees as he reaches him, pushing his face up against Henriksen's cock through his underwear, breathing him in.

Henriksen grunts, rests his hands on those broad, rounded shoulders, then moves one up to cradle Krum's head as he turns to the side to lick instead of nuzzle. His cock jerks at the touch of tongue through cloth, the promise of it. He pulls his head closer; Krum licks him again, mouthing at him wet and needy, and his briefs are soaked through with spit and precome so that he can feel every touch like they weren't there, can feel it when Krum gasps for breath and draws chill air over him.

"I vant," Krum says against his skin, but lets it trail off, his broad hand coming up to stroke the back of Henriksen's thigh instead. He ducks his head down, the hooked bridge of his nose an insistent press against Henriksen's groin, and laps at his balls instead.

 _"Fuck_ ," Henriksen says, thrusting against his face and digging his nails deep into Krum's shoulder. "What do you want?" He wants more, wants to be in his mouth, to spill it over his face or down his throat, but -

Krum moans, right up against him like that, even though he hasn't so much as touched himself. "Vant to ride you," he finally gets out.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good too. Good enough that Henriksen pushes him back just a bit, just enough that he can peel his underwear down, shove them with his pants to his knees, and - he can't help it - press back against him one more time so that he can feel Krum's tongue on his balls skin to skin. "Get on the bed," he rasps when he finds his voice again.

He's got a condom and lube in his pocket, had gone to the bar prepared, and he grabs them before kicking out of his pants and underwear, watching as Krum pulls himself to his feet, heads for the bed. Krum's ass is round and tight with muscle, and Henriksen can think of any number of things he wants to do to it.

He settles for following Krum there, catching him before he can turn around and pushing him gently to the bed, face-down. Krum groans softly as his neglected cock rubs the bedspread and Henriksen's own twitches in sympathy. He palms one of Krum's asscheeks, squeezes, fingers wrapping around the hard line of his hip, thumb sliding into the cleft to brush over his hole. Krum pushes back against him, half-rising to get more.

Henriksen squeezes again, uses both hands to spread his cheeks apart so he can lean down and lick a wide stripe from Krum's balls to his hole. Krum shudders under him, gasping out something in a language Henriksen's fairly sure he's never heard before. He ignores it, licks in deeper, scraping his beard over the inside of Krum's thighs to make him shiver again.

" _Please_ ," Krum says, "I haff to..."

Suddenly he doesn't want to wait a second longer either, gropes for the condom where he'd left it and rolls it onto himself, slicking it up with half the lube in the little single-use pack. He smears the rest messily over Krum's hole, slipping a finger into him briefly, slick and easy, then forces himself away, rolling off to lie flat on his back. "You said you wanted to ride me," he says. "So get up here."

Krum's on him almost before he's finished talking, one leg swung over him quick as if it's as natural as breathing, his hands braced on Henriksen's arms. He stays crouched like that, their eyes locked, for long seconds - then reaches behind himself to take Henriksen's cock in hand and slowly, too damn slowly, lower himself down onto it. It's one long, unbroken move, and it's all Henriksen can do to keep from thrusting up to finish it too soon. 

Krum lets his head fall back as he settles onto Henriksen's thighs, cock bobbing wetly against his belly, leaving damp smears against pale muscle. Henriksen can't look away; props himself up on his elbows to watch him better as he starts to move: straightening up, moving his hands to his own tense thighs, his hips rolling as he fucks himself on Henriksen's cock. There's an odd, perfect grace to it, and Henriksen picks up the rhythm fast, following him, thrusting up as he comes down to make each stroke deeper. 

Krum squeezes hard around him and he gasps, bracing his feet on the bed, knees raised, so he can thrust up harder. Krum adjusts instantly, perfectly, as if he had known exactly what Henriksen was going to do, and doesn't miss a beat - compensates for every little stutter. Somehow the control has gotten away from him completely, which had not been in his plans at all. He knows it's a dirty move, but he reaches for Krum's dripping cock anyway, hand wrapping tight around it still slick with lube, slicker with the precome that slides down over his knuckles. Krum shudders under the touch but doesn't protest. Henriksen pumps him hard, fast, his grip tightening until Krum arches back with a wordless cry, spurting in hot bursts over Henriksen's stomach, arm, hand, looking as if he's flying.

Henriksen can't stand it anymore. He lets go, lunges up off the bed, catches Krum, pulls him close, both of them gasping as the angle shifts, Henriksen's cock sliding inside him, impossibly staying in - drags them both to the bed and rolls over on top of him, pinning him down.

Krum's face is still caught in bliss: his eyes half-closed, lips parted, almost handsome like this. Henriksen leans down, buries his face in Krum's shoulder, tastes sweat and salt, smells the come smearing between their bodies. He grabs one of Krum's thighs, swings it up over his shoulder, thrusts deeper. He feels Krum's hands move to cup at his ass, trying to pull him deeper as he bottoms out, wanting all of it, all Henriksen's got to give him, and that's it, _there_ , and he's barely aware that Krum is talking to him as he comes buried deep inside him, the Slavic-sounding words urging him on even though he has no idea what he's saying.

When he finishes, feeling finally relaxed - sated, every muscle loose, his balls achingly empty - he pulls out with a slick wet pop, tugging off the used condom and tossing it into the bedside trashcan. He shifts off Krum's hard body and slumps to the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling and enjoying the simplicity of not thinking.

 

After a minute or so, Krum shifts slightly, murmurs something else, and Henriksen glances over just in time to see him lift a little stick, point it at him, and... 

_"Obliviate."_


End file.
